


Grounding Ghosts

by momebie (katilara)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 13:26:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katilara/pseuds/momebie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grief is a dance that most people learn, but few care to reinvent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grounding Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Bucky Barnes throw down at the Marvel Throw Down Tumblr. Spoilers through Winter Soldier #15.

Bucky has grieved so many people he’s got it down to a science. He skips right over denial, because it wastes time and has no cathartic purpose. Instead he puts his feelings away for a while as he chases down Fury’s Electric Ghost. It turns out to be yet another part of his past that throws what he’s missing into sharp focus. He can’t sleep at night. Not while his bed is so empty and likely to stay that way.

Instead he spends his long nights on the roof with Clint, boxing and having impromptu target practice that probably won’t hurt any civilians. Probably. He’d care more if he wasn’t ten drinks into the night and six months gone in his fear. Anger hits him hardest when the rest of the world is calm. He’s learned to let it simmer within him, but Clint is insistent that continuing to do so will only lead to an aneurysm. 

“Just fucking hit me,” Clint says, jaw tensing. “Your whole body is straining against it. Hit _something_ before you snap.”

It’s dark on the outskirts of Brooklyn. The clouds are blocking most of the moonlight and the most visible part of Clint is the shock of blond hair sitting stark against the outline of the city beyond them. Their feet crunch on the loose pebbles of his building’s roof as they scuff around. 

“I’m not going to hit you,” Bucky says. “I’ll break you in half.” 

“You’re not the first Russian expatriate to say that to me.” Clint is smirking, _asking for it_. 

“Yeah?” Bucky turns away from Clint and picks up his Glock off the roof’s ledge. He heaves his empty bottle out over the edge of the building and into the night. It seems to hang in the air as he raises the gun and gets a shot off before it starts to fall. The silencer makes it so that the only sound is shattering glass as it hits what might be a car hood on the street below, followed by the empty echo of the report. “It’s not going to be as fun when I do it.” 

“Your thighs do lack the distinct curve of femininity that I’m so drawn to.” 

“You know she can snap your neck with those, right?” Bucky slips the Glock into his thigh holster and opens another bottle. He downs half of it before continuing. “I’ve seen her do it.” 

“Here by the grace of the goddess go I,” Clint says. He’s picked up his bow and is looking down an arrow, focusing on a near distance. When he lets it go there’s a sharp crack a few hundred yards away as a tree branch falls onto the sidewalk. Then there’s a whistle of wind as the arrow just misses Bucky’s ear on its return approach. 

“Boomerang arrow?” Bucky says dumbly.

“Yeah.” The pride is warm in Clint’s voice. 

Bucky knows that Clint has worked hard to cultivate an air of not caring about his practical intelligence. Stark is the gadget man and Clint’s perfectly comfortable letting it be that way. Bucky also knows, down in his gut, that if they were in a spy movie instead of a spy life Clint would be the smart one in the glasses that provided men like Bucky with the exploding gum. “That’s kind of brilliant.” 

“That’s what I said! It’s good in close quarters with lots of angles involved. And it’s just nice to have something you anticipate losing come back. Kate called me an idiot.”

“She’s young, she’ll come around.” 

Silence settles between them as they stand and listen to the city. The world feels bigger and bigger as the seconds slip away. Bucky looks down at the bottle he’s holding and suddenly it seems small in comparison. It looks as if could just....

Heat builds in his gut and shoots through his veins, pricking up the hairs along his bare skin where it’s being teased by the cooling night air. He closes his metal fingers around the bottle and squeezes until the glass cracks. The liquid spills out of it and splashes onto the leg of his pants. It’s so easy to do. It’s not enough. 

He wants to tear the building apart one brick at a time. He wants to tear apart every building between him and Natasha. And if he makes it that far he wants to tear into her mind and free the ghost of himself. He picks up a new bottle and throws it as hard as he can across the roof. Beer erupts from it as it explodes. There’s a third one in his hand before he realizes he’s even bent to pick it up. 

Clint reaches out and grasps his shoulder. “Stop wasting the good stuff. There’s some Coors back at my place if you just want to toss around shitty beer.” 

Bucky’s throat clenches and he chokes. If he was by himself he’d let it turn into a sob, but he’s shown enough of his ass to the team over the last few months. He grabs Clint’s wrist and twists it around, pinning him in place. Clint releases his bow and lets it clatter at his feet. Bucky squeezes Clint’s forearm and slides his thumb along the thick vein that runs through it. He just needs to feel someone else’s pulse beneath his fingers for once. He needs someone else to be the one to give and acquiesce to an unwanted touch.

“Steve’s right, you know,” Clint says. His voice is carefully monotone and he doesn’t try to break free. “This isn’t a thing you can fix with force. You can’t will her back, but you can will yourself forward. I know. I’ve done it.”

Bucky wrenches Clint’s arm in and drags him closer. He’s breathing down his neck as he spits out, “Steve is always right. He’s Captain fucking America, and _America_ is never wrong. But the degree of truth is not what concerns me.” 

“Don’t get all nationalistic on me now,” Clint says. “I need someone to be a pessimist with me. Someone who knows her like I do. Better than I do.” 

Bucky lets go and takes a step back. Clint turns and punches his metal shoulder. “It’s okay, big fella. We’ll put her back together. You’ll be back to your erotic thigh asphyxiation or whatever it is you crazy kids get up to in no time.”

. . . 

“The safe house in Paris has sat empty since you last used it, Barnes,” Dugan says. His voice sounds gruff and thin over the line. The steady thrum in the background tells Bucky that he’s stepped into an engine room to take the incoming call. 

“Can you tell me where she has been?” 

“Fury’s had her running half the globe.”

“To keep her from me no doubt,” Bucky mutters. 

Dugan ignores him. “She’s currently in Latveria, though I know he’s told the rest of the team that she’s in Austria.”

“Close enough I guess. There’s been no murmurs of suspicious behavior?”

“Stark was the last one with her, you should ask him. But as far as we can tell she’s been playing by the rules, kid,” Dugan says. “As much as any of us can, anyway. They managed to fix most of what Novokov broke. The Widow remembers her directives.”

“That’s good news, if it stays that way,” Bucky says, fighting the urge to punch the wall. It wouldn’t be difficult to get fixed, but having to explain the plaster caught between the grooves of his knuckles and wrist wouldn’t be worth the momentary release. It is Steve’s bathroom, after all. “God only knows what else may be lurking there.” 

“I think the darkest thing lurking there is you, kid. Just hang in there. This is a small war to fight, comparatively.” A klaxon sounds in the background and Dugan grunts another assurance and a goodbye.

Bucky holds the radio to his ear for a minute more, letting the warmth of the device seep into his skin. He takes a deep breath, drops it into the pocket of his jeans, and washes his hands as if he needs to. When he opens the door Steve is standing just outside of it with his arms crossed. Bucky pushes past him and he gives easily. 

Steve follows him out into the living area, his bare feet slapping against the wood floor. “How many of the old gang have you got doing your dirty work for you?”

“All of my work is dirty, Steve. That’s what I was built for, right?” Bucky drops onto the couch and sprawls out, taking up as much space as he can so Steve can’t fill in next to him. Touch is only comforting if it’s from the right person, and lately everyone who tries makes Bucky’s skin itch.

“Buck,” Steve says. It’s in his Captain America Voice. That voice that makes dark, steel men want to turn gold. “It’s not your place to be looking after Natasha.”

“There are at least a dozen agencies keeping tabs on all of us at any given time. There’s nothing wrong with me pulling that information in a way that maybe Fury won’t notice.”

“That’s different and you know it.” Steve perches on the arm of the couch and lets his voice falter a bit. “That’s security, threat management. This is personal.” 

“Since when has threat management ever not been personal?” Bucky turns his head and focuses on the television, grappling for the remote and flipping through the channels. “Where’s Logan? He was supposed to bring beer.”

. . . 

It’s bargaining, strangely, that brings him the closest he’s been to Natasha since they got her back. Fury finds out about Dugan’s loose lips and shuts down all of Bucky’s lines of communication. Brotherhood will only take you so far against possibly losing your security clearance. Within a week of his information drying up he’s standing at attention in Fury’s dark, crowded office. 

“Nice of you to take my calls, finally.” 

“I’m a busy man,” Fury says, returning the sarcasm. “You should have left a message with my assistant.”

“You knew when you sent me after the ghost that I needed a distraction. Why have you let me dangle this long since?”

“Would you believe Rogers requested it?” Fury clasps his hands behind his head and leans back in his chair. “At ease, Barnes. You’re giving me flashbacks.” 

“Yes,” Bucky says, relaxing. “I do believe Steve would ask that to buy time to desperately try to fix me. He’s felt responsible for me since I was fifteen. Apparently my death and subsequent resurrection hasn’t changed that. But I don’t believe you’d give it to him if it wasn’t part of your plan.” 

“True. On both counts.” 

“I hope your plan now allows me out back for a run now and then. Or do I just get to sit here atrophying while you decide when to put me in?” 

“Christ. Contrary to how things seem, not every trip to the fucking can is life or death here, Barnes. Though I can’t say the same for you and Barton’s recent target practice. Wipe that smile off your face, you should both know better. Luckily for the greater New York area and my sanity something has come up that plays right into your and Barton’s specific skill sets.” 

“And that is?”

“We need someone to find Natasha.” 

For the fourth time in as many days the world explodes out around Bucky and he’s miniscule in comparison. It’s a credit to Fury’s time in command that he delivers the line with a touch more softness than usual. He tries to stay away from giving bad news directly. Bucky can’t blame him. It’s easier to let the people beneath him who’ve already formed relationships with one another know how to navigate those relationships and what to say.

“What do you mean, find her? She was just in Latveria.”

Fury gives him a stern look. “That information was classified. But you’re right, she was. She successfully retrieved what we needed from Doctor Doom and left it at the planned drop point. Then she went dark.”

Bucky clenches his fists. He wants to wrap them around Fury’s neck. How could they have lost track of her after all she’d just been through? Didn’t SHIELD owe it to her to make sure she was safe? She was more than capable of taking care of herself, but that didn’t mean things didn’t sometimes go wrong. It didn’t mean that they hadn’t just gone wrong. Weren’t going wrong currently. Wouldn’t begin going wrong soon. 

He swallows down his bile. “Do you have any idea where we should start looking, sir? Two days is a hell of a lead time for someone trained to disappear.”

“I thought I’d let the two of you tell me.” 

“We’ll handle it.”

“Good,” Fury says. “Your plane leaves in an hour. And Barnes, you do remember your orders as far as what you’re allowed to tell her?”

“If you’re asking me if I remember how to lie, sir, then yes. Like falling out of bed.” 

“You stay in your own god damn bed,” Fury growls, “or you’ll end up on snowflake detail in Siberia.”

. . . 

Depression sets in over the Atlantic. It settles into his empty spaces like an old friend. Clint sits across from him on Tony’s private jet and offers him the expensive whiskey. Bucky decides to nurse a bottle of water instead. There’s been enough booze in him lately and he owes it to Natasha to be his best. She demands that of men. He and Clint are the longest living proof. 

The ocean is a long way beneath them, hazy and green-grey in the afternoon sun, and he wonders idly if the fall would kill him. Probably not, with his luck. “She never told me what actually happened in Budapest, you know.”

Clint is sorting through his arrows, cataloguing the ones he thinks he might need. He keeps his eyes trained on them as he answers. It’s just as well, Bucky doesn’t know that he can handle looking someone else in the eye. “That’s because she doesn’t really remember.”

“She has to. She never forgets a mission.” _Unless she’s been made to_ , he thinks.

“No,” Clint says, fingers busy methodically stashing the arrows back into their quiver. “She remembers, but she doesn’t remember. She remembers everything we did to track you down. She remembers trying to break your programming. She remembers the bitter defeat when you slipped away. She remembers the terrible things you said. But all of the details, the boring important things about the mission, she doesn’t remember those. She only remembers you.” 

“Or she did, anyway.” 

“That’s why we’re headed back there. I think she might be chasing the ghost of those memories. There’s something missing inside of her. She can feel the empty pockets, she just doesn’t know what should be in them. Blood calls to blood, you know?” 

“There was probably quite a bit of blood, huh?”

“Oh, buckets. Mostly yours.” Clint looks up with a lopsided grin and a raised eyebrow. 

“I’m on your side now, guy. I’ve got all the time in the world to make up for it.”

“Preaching to the choir,” Clint says, and takes another sip of Stark’s whiskey. 

. . . 

Once their feet hit the ground it only takes Bucky and Clint a couple of hours to find the dilapidated building on the edge of Jozsefvaros where Natasha has built her nest. It could have been any squatter, but the quality of the things she left there gives her away. She’s not at home, so they retreat to a cramped, dark bar to wait. It’s never to their benefit to waste energy when they could be reserving it for the battle to come. Bucky starts to eat away at the time by listing as many bad plans as he can come up with. 

“I can bump into her on the street. Act like I’m here on other business. Steve business. She’s seen me a few times, knows my name and that I’m on her side. We could hit it off.” 

“Steve business? I’m sorry,” Clint says, rubbing his forehead. “Are we bringing Natasha home or putting on a romantic comedy?” 

“We could do both?” 

“Dramatic irony is not a stable foundation on which to build a relationship.”

“Like you would know.” 

“I am wise beyond my years,” Clint says. “You’re just alive beyond your years.” 

Bucky doesn’t have a response for that, because it’s mostly true. He slaps Clint in the back of the head, pushing his nose down into his bottle, and then excuses himself while Clint wipes the beer off his chin. 

The bathroom is not as disgusting as he thought it might be, but he has to wipe the mirror down with a wet napkin to see himself in it. Looking into his own face doesn’t calm the sea sickness he’s been feeling in his gut. Like so many of the other places he went while he was under suggestion, the city is familiar, but not. He knows instinctively what he will find down some of the streets, but he can’t tell Clint where he is or how those streets stand in relation to anything else. There is a dark humour in the fact that Natasha is here to find one ghost and he’s here to find her in a whole city of ghosts. 

There’s a sudden banging on the door that makes him jump. “Give me a minute!” 

“We gotta go!” Clint shouts from the other side. “Our friend just ran by. Literally.” 

Bucky wipes at his face and pushes his hair back. When he makes it back to his stool Clint is pulling money out of his pocket and tossing it onto the counter. They both hurry to the door and hit the street at a run. 

“Which way was she going?” 

“This way,” Clint says, and takes a sharp left turn into an alley. He drops to his knees and pulls his quiver and bow out of the duffel bag he’s been carrying. Bucky feels for the handgun in his thigh holster. They stare at each other, barely daring to breathe. 

The sounds of the early evening around them come in dull trickles. There’s a chorus of birds a few blocks over, cars driving up and down the streets, and meaningless conversations taking place. And then there’s the clatter of someone dropping a weapon off to their right and they’re at a run again, out of the alley and down the street. 

They round the corner into another alley and Natasha has her back against a wall quite literally. Clint pulls an arrow and puts it through the neck of man standing closest to her. The other one turns and she uses the distraction to give him a swift kick to the throat with the heel of her boot. He drops to the ground and reaches for the gun he’d dropped earlier. Natasha presses the metal tipped sole of the toe of her boot into his collar bone. 

“If you move, you die,” she says, in clipped Russian. Then she kicks him in the jaw and he passes out. She looks up at them, wiping her hands. “Not that I don’t appreciate the cavalry, boys, but shouldn’t you be somewhere avenging something?”

“Funny that,” Clint says, slinging his bow over his shoulder. “Fury doesn’t like it when his assets wander off. We’re the clean up crew.” 

“Just in time then. There are two more of these jerks out on the street.” 

“Just in time to not be cleaning your brains up off the street you mean?”

“Barton, you should know better,” Natasha says. 

Bucky coughs down a small laugh. “What could you possibly have done to deserve such a warm welcome?” 

Natasha levels a stare at him for a few moments. Then she steps over the second assailant and joins them at the entrance to the alley. “Wrong place at the wrong time,” she says. “We were both looking for something else and just happened to cross paths. How fortuitous that we both hold a grudge.”

“You weren’t both looking for the same thing, I trust,” Clint says. 

“You know, we didn’t have time to compare notes.” 

Clint turns away and looks both ways down the street. “I think the coast is clear. Come on, let’s go get your things and get you back on the leash, before we’re all sent to the pound.” 

They make it within a block of her squat before a bullet just misses Bucky’s shoulder. Without thinking he grabs her by the elbow and pushes her flat against the wall next to them, placing himself between the shooter and her. Clint is down on his knee behind Bucky, firing arrows into the windows of the building on the opposite side of the street. The second one hits its mark.

“Christ,” he says. “Did these guys happen to be pouring out of a clown car when you ran into them?”

It feels like a lifetime, but it’s probably not even a minute. Bucky’s got his forehead pressed into hers and she’s looking up at him, curious. His hands are on her shoulders and they’re aching to move to her hips. There’s a current between them that used to keep him grounded. He pulls away.

“Thank you,” she says. “I do appreciate chivalry in a handsome stranger, but you do know I can take care of myself, don’t you?” 

“I do,” he mumbles, looking down at his feet. He can already hear the taunting he’s going to get from Clint later. “Sorry, habit.” 

“That’s a habit I could get used to.”

“Yeah? Let’s not start doing trust falls until we’re back in a country where we know who’s trying to kill us, okay?” Clint says. 

He and Natasha walk on and Bucky hangs back. He watches the familiar way she moves in her black boots, the bob of her hair about her shoulders, and the comfortable way she jostles shoulders with Clint. He remembers Clint saying how good it was sometimes, just to have a thing you thought was gone forever return to you. It was nothing. It was less than a moment, but it was the perfect hit of the hair of the dog and it would get him through to the next time. He follows after them, jogging slightly to catch up. After all, there will be nine hours of flight time to settle into acceptance.


End file.
